Can't Be Friends
by shintas1st
Summary: "Look, Robin, I don't care if you don't wanna be with me more than... him, but please, at least have the decency to get my name right..."
1. Too much, too little

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. I make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

**A/N**: This was originally going to be a short drabble that turned into, well, _this._ Written for my lovely Marshy, based off events in the YJGay rp Twitter.

**Warnings**: Slash, swearing, violence, character death.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Green and blue are boring into him, though it's only the latter he's concerned with. The latter that he knows is there beneath the blank black of the shades hiding it from view.

For once the ginger has enough sense in him to shut his mouth and let them speak. Freckled cheeks aren't enough to keep him cute when he sneers, lips and brows twisting his expression into a hateful mask at Roy's confession to his significant other. Despite being able to stare down the precisely honed steel of an arrow, Wally doesn't have the courage to watch Robin's face as he responds.

The boy shifts, uncertain, and he can tell by the fidgeting blur in his peripheral that Robin, for once, has nothing to say. He isn't quite fast enough to snare him with words when he moves forward to embrace the wrong redhead. A sound like disgust bubbles as the dark head burrows into his ex's chest.

"Robin..."

"I'm sorry Roy, I know everything lately has been crap, but I still want to be friends. I know you and Wally don't really hate each other, you're just sore over... over your breakups and ther-"

"Stop."

The word is a force, and Robin pauses, looks -_stares_- at once hurt and confused, eyes like questions he doesn't want to answer.

A painful groan. "You don't _get it_, do you?"

"I... I do. I think... you're lonely and-"

A gentle push and slim arms slip away, the warmth that the smaller body managed to generate lessening with distance. Roy shivers.

"Look Rob just... just let him go, he's obviously lost it."

_That one_ hadn't even wanted him here in the first place. His fingers itch, but he doesn't spare him a glance. Not yet.

"I told you what I want, _who_ I want, but things aren't- _No!_ Don't touch me. Please."

"But I-"

"_NO!_"

"Hey! Don't put your fucking hands on him!"

"No Wally, it's okay, Roy just- _Roy what- STOP-!_"

The click is louder than the speedster's mouth. There's a smile, a quirk, but it doesn't belong to Speedy.

Nor Red Arrow.

Nor Roy.

Neither does the weapon in his hand.

The feel isn't new; the weight, the chill, the security. His hand is steady -he's done this before, held it and known this rush-, and he knows it's probably the only part of him that feels full right now. He also knows that fullness won't last long.

"Roy, where did you get that?"

Robin's voice is soft, muted almost, but there's a sickening tinge of pleading that makes Roy's eyes narrow. He'd never pleaded before, he always accepted or ignored, ignorantly oblivious to the world. To _feeling_. It's almost a mockery to see it in the boy's eyes now.

"Wasn't that hard t- _did I tell you to move?_"

Wally freezes as if pierced on the line of trajectory. Only his face dares to defy the ex-archer's will, brows drawing down until his glare is as dark as the one he's faced with. Roy doesn't allow his eyes to leave him again.

"Roy? Roy, look at me, please."

A smile rises and dies at his name on _those_ lips, at the still subdued tone. He doesn't need to see his face to know he's panicked and confused. _'Does he honestly not get it? Is he really that stupid?'_

Wally wants to move, that much is obvious. Every line of his form is close to snapping, the tension slipping down to the soles of his feet. It's just too bad that Roy's eyes are glued to him, watching his face, the way he swallows, how long it takes him to blink and the slack of his jaw. _'He knows me too well.'_ And the realization is maddening. He wishes they'd never been together, then immediately takes it right back.

He wishes Roy was the same person before they broke up.

Suddenly his chest stops hurting.

"Roy?"

Robin's trying again and it's starting to annoy him. He knows, _he knows_, but he doesn't try to _fix_. Either let him go or...

"No."

The acrobat is quiet, form as still as his -_tch_- lovers'. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and it's like he's been called to the front of the class. His cheeks flush with anger when Roy teasingly tilts the weapon, an eye closing as if to better see down the sight.

"No _what_ Roy? What do you want? I don't- I don't understand... you keep asking to talk to me then you go and do things that... that just..."

Ah, there it is, _Dick's_ voice. The young man smiles, relaxes, keeps the gun level with the runner just ahead. For all the anger in his words there's an exhaustion to the sigh the boy gives that tickles a feeling Roy knows he's wrong to have. It's something like greed and guilt and anticipation all at once, and for a moment ("_I love you too._") he thinks maybe he can leave with something more than delusions.

"If you want to go, Roy, then go. I'm done trying to keep you here if you hate me too."

By the look on Wally's face, he's had the word _hate_ shoved down his throat as well. He's only ever seen the expressive green eyes that bright with pain when they'd split, and having Dick breathe those words ("_You probably hate me. I've been a shitty boyfriend and a horrible best friend._") is an admission he fails to realize as the boy advances on him.

"Robin-"

Wally shakes with something other than anger for once. The boy doesn't seem to hear him. Any twitch he might have made to move toward him is stopped when Roy hisses a warning and turns his gaze on Robin for a split second.

"What are you doing?"

"You can go Roy, but i'm not going to let you destroy yourself while you're gone. I still care about you, and-"

"Shut up-"

"-and if there's anything I can do to... to make this hurt any less or- I'm sorry, i'm just sorry, okay? I-"

"I said _shut up_ Robin-"

There's silver with his name on it but he doesn't understand, draws closer until Roy snaps and there's a muzzle against his shirt, his _chest_. Shoulder. Neck. Chin...

"_ROY!_ You son of a bitch don't you dare, I swear to god-" Wally's voice, pure hatred. There's no redeeming himself in his eyes, but he doesn't care.

Roy swallows. Blinks. Ghosts the gun over Dick's lips and swears, _swears_ he can feel the thin, sharp intake of breath. The tip of his nose fits neatly into the mouth of the muzzle, and he doesn't wince when an angry flick sends his shades clattering to the ground. There's no crease in his brow, no furrow as the cool surface of the metal caresses it lightly. More intimate than the pressure on his hand as he pushes down harder to tilt back the boy's head, though, is the look in his eyes. Determined, confused, and uncertain.

He already misses the trust.

"Roy, this _isn't_ you. We might fight and- and we might hurt each other _alot_ but this- we can work this out _together_..."

Roy knows he should be keeping an eye on Wally, and telling Robin to keep his hands _away_ from him, but his eyes haven't broken their gaze, not even to stare at the gun pressed to his forehead, and -_oh god_- it's just like-

"Robin-"

"Yea- _mmfgn!_"

He doesn't realize how much he's missed the feel of those small hands on his chest, the cool dry lips pressed against his own until they're back. It doesn't matter that Dick's body is tense or that his hand is creeping toward the gun now pressed to his temple. It's all he could have asked for. He sighs, and the sudden slip of the barrel to the boy's cheek makes him quiver and relax at once. Robin's fingers are on his wrist now and he can't help but groan as he pulls him closer.

"_Robin~_"

The boy in question gasps and tugs lightly on his hand, trying to get him to lower it as Roy follows the barrel's path in reverse. A kiss here, a nudge there- _brow, nose, lips... lips... lips..._

"Nnh- Roy, wait-"

_...chin, lips..._

"Roy-"

_Lipschinneck-_

"_Roy st-stop-_"

There's movement, the boy's shiver and a shift of blue and white. Before either can end Roy growls, tears his lips from Robin's and his wrist from his grasp. In the next instant Wally crumples along with Dick's scream that seems too loud even with the gunshot still ringing in his ears. He'd taken the hit mid-stride, not even a full foot from Roy's outstretched arm, and momentum sends him slamming at almost full speed into the two of them.

Even with the bodies of both of them atop him Roy seems hard pressed to let Robin go. The boy kicks and screams, snarling with Roy's arm locked around his waist, and it's all he can do not to shoot him when he slams an elbow into his nose and sends stars flying across his vision. He can barely see for the pain though it hurts more when Robin finally wriggles free.

"Wally- _Wally are you alri-_"

"_O-ow! Rob watc- ow yeah I-_ m-my shoulder- _fuck_-"

Roy's eyes water and spill and he wipes the blood off onto the back of his hand. The exchange only takes a second and Robin is on him again, screaming and livid. He takes four hits, painful and sharp, to his chest and face, before he manages to throw him off and roll to his side. Blood and spit spatter over Wally's sneakers when he coughs and the horrible pressure of the treads slamming into his chest and then grinding into his throat make him wince.

Both the boys are looking down at him in short order. Dick empties the gun and he's never thought of bullets hitting him in the face as being humiliating before, but his cheeks flush with shame as his snarl turns to a squeak when the sneaker presses down harder. He can see Wally's teeth now, the ugly frown deep and hateful, and Roy is sure that if _he'd_ been the one with the gun instead of Dick that he'd be dead by now. The look in the acrobat's eyes is just short of deadly; he looks more betrayed than anything, and he knows just as well as anyone that they won't be meeting again.

"C'mon Wally." Dick's voice is already hoarse, and Roy thinks maybe he blacked out for a second because he doesn't remember the boy screaming _that_ much. He stares at the blue eyes that will no longer look back into his own, and when Wally stomps down again he thinks he almost sees pity behind all that anger.

"I said _come on_ Wally, we need to get you to a hospital-"

"_But he_-!"

"I don't care _how fast_ you heal, we're going! Now! As for _Roy_," the venom makes the young man flinch, a tiny seed of regret low in his belly," the _authorities_ can take care of him."

Roy doesn't know what Robin plans to do with that empty gun, but it doesn't matter. He waits until their shadows have slipped off of him and sits up, throat stinging and mouth dry. A bitter part of him wishes he could've swept him out from under Wally's nose. Another, more optimistic, if not grim part, is glad for the fact that his neighborhood is especially seedy and it won't take long for the cops to find the body in his apartment.

They don't hear the huff, or the shuffle, or the zip. The echo of the _click_ as Robin undoes the lock to the front door, however...

"Look, Robin, I don't care if you don't wanna be with me more than... _him_, but please-"

It hardly proves anything that Wally spends his final moments moving to shield the younger boy. Roy is still angry and it's just as sweet when the first three shots rip through his chest and the closet door behind him. Dick's eyes are wide as he's ever seen them, and he doubts even Bruce has seen him covered in this much blood.

"-at _least_ have the decency to get my name right-"

Wally stumbles back, coughing, and it's all Dick can do to hold him up when two more shots ring out, one striking the speedster's stomach, the other punching a hole in his uninjured shoulder and settling in Dick's left arm. He cries out, and between the dead weight and the pain, crumples back to the floor. It's almost too much to even attempt to move, and when he finally gains his strength, Roy's boot is on the chest of the gasping boy sprawled out on top of him, pinning them both.

"-I'm Arsenal now."

Roy smiles as the last full part of him empties directly into Wally's head, and he wonders, before he climbs out his window and rockets off down the street, if Dick has ever had brains on his shirt before.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

**A/N**: Yup. Weirdly obsessed Roy, go! The End.


	2. Oh, you poor, pitiful thing

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. I make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

**A/N**: First chapter I say this was going to be a oneshot drabble that got a little longer than intended, and now look at me. Posting a _second_ chapter. There's something wrong here, but I can't quite get a handle on how to stop it. Oh well, I blame my weakness on Mahlia. This is your fault, do you hear me!

Kind of a recap on the final moments of chapter one outside of Roy's P.O.V.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Pressure like death -_it is death_- crushing down on a bloodied chest. Weak moans, -_gurgles, moans need air, there's holes in his lungs and_- scratching, blind and useless against the stiff leather of an unforgiving boot.

_"-I'm Arsenal now."_

A simple smile, simply there, simply serene, simply doesn't belong.

And for the first time in a long time Richard Grayson finds himself shaking and speechless with a sore throat from screaming, and fear so raw he can taste it. It's sharp, metallic, and aches in his mouth so badly he can feel his heart on his tongue. He can't speak, can barely breathe, and the acute clarity of everything his senses take in is almost too much to bear.

His ears explode, and for a moment there's white. Rendered dumb, deaf, and blind. He's sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but he can't think of it with a trembling speedster draped over top him.

The soft warmth of the redder than red hair -_too red, sickening red, red, red, red_- leaving a trail of itself on his cheek like the slime of a snail. The way it curls and slides as the head it belongs to falls back onto his shoulder. The thud, what _should_ be a thud, more of a _squish_ -_oh god don't think about it, don't throw up, don't heave, he's already covered in- _- when the echo of the sharp report dies out and the gun stops hissing smoke in his face with all the smugness of a sated dragon.

Arsenal isn't smiling anymore but that doesn't make the look in his eyes any less terrifying. Before he can stop himself he's whimpering, the sound inhuman and not inspired by the hole in his arm. The redhead -_the one standing above him, leaning down, looking at him, staring_- seems to not mind his weird sounds, so he keeps making them, keeps squeezing air out of his painfully sore throat because -_there's nothing else he can do, Wally's... he's_- he's _afraid_ and-

"N-no, please-"

Arsenal stops.

Looks.

Shrugs, and picks up the empty gun -_so close to his cheek he can almost feel the violent tremors_- the boy had taken from him moments before it was made painfully aware that the elder had a second one. He doesn't straighten though; he's still crouched there, hands on his knees, guns in his hands, and _that_ look in his eyes.

The same one that makes Richard cower, turn his head, and weep when his search for comfort is abruptly shattered by hair flecked with grey matter.

The same one that he doesn't have to think about for a long time to remember where he's seen it before.

"It's okay, Robin," Roy murmurs, eyes the same -_soft, gentle, controlled, too glazed_-, "I'm not going to hurt you." -_Like he doesn't understand that he already has._-

Loving.

His eyes are loving.

Why?

Richard cries harder.

Of all things, why is it _that_? He finds himself wishing fervently that it's hate, or regret, or nothing,_ just nothing_, because now more than ever it reminds him of _that moment_.

The moment before the fall, when _they_ were still obliviously carefree. When _they_ were still happy, and proud, and _alive_ and they -_fuck_- _they loved him too_. And now it's hard not to imagine _them_ in Arsenal's place, crouching and smiling and guns and-

No.

It could be worse.

It could be _pity_ in his eyes, and their faces could become _his_, in all of it's dark and brooding and protective glory and -_this isn't real, it can't be because he would never... he wouldn't-HE WON'T_-.

God forbid he be granted reprieve now of all times, with the limp weight of Wally shifting in his arms, one clutching tight, the other trembling against the pain. He turns his head, skin tingling where the cool metal of the gun touched it before and where rapidly cooling blood is touching it now, and his stomach lurches and _he's still watching with that fucking look in his eyes_.

It's been a while since he's been able to hug Wally without seeing Roy frown. The _look_ is tinged with amusement, and he knows _Arsenal knows_ what he's thinking and it's numbing.

_He's not jealous of dead things._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.


	3. One For The Road

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. I make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

It's a task to leave the boy, sobbing as quietly as he possibly can -_there's no need really, the only one who would be bothered by it is dead_- behind, but he does. The outside is considerably darker and cooler, the chill of the windowpane and air beyond welcome on his heated skin. A last glance over his shoulder puts the thought in Roy's head that perhaps he should have chosen a lower caliber, but it's too late now -_there's plenty of mess for the investigators to play with later_-.

Arsenal weighs the weapons in his hands, tucks the one used to kill Wally away in the holster under his shirt at the small of his back. He keeps the other -_the one that touched his lips_- in his grip. There's a sleek black dual-sport cycle in the alley below already running silent, the headlight on and capped, black electrical tape layered thick over the tail lights and license plate. Beside it is an equally black backpack, and he takes a moment to scan the immediate area before mounting the rail of his fire escape -_skin hot, muscles tense, energy peaked_- and inching along his neighbors' window ledge.

He can't hear a peep from his apartment now, and something in him is saddened by the silence before he remembers he needs to _go_. No matter how much he'd rather stay -_That would be nice, wouldn't it?_- his assumptions -_information, calculations_- tell him he has very little time before people who would very much like to get in his way are due to arrive. Evading the cops will be a task, but a lighter one than avoiding the mentor of the boy he's left weeping and the one he's left dead.

There's no point in using gloves to descend from the third story safely; Robin will tell which way he's seen him leave, a little blood on the wall won't make much of a difference. The young man's blunt nails scrabble along the brick, and he's half way down when he hears sirens. His heart leaps and he jumps, more eager to meet the ground than he should be, the crouch and roll drilled into him landing him quickly with only a scraped shoulder and scuffed shoe.

For a moment he thinks his planning was off, plastering himself to the wall in the dark with an almost overpowering wave of self-loathing burning in his chest.

-_How could I be so stupid, so careless, so flawed, so_-

A firetruck races past, tires squealing and lights flashing. He sighs. Turns with wobbly knees to tear open the zipper of the pack without further hesitation.

There's space between the grime coated metal dumpsters, occupied only by _black_ and the stench of waste, and he takes it, stripping and redressing in the darkness. He can feel the still warm blood on his face, arms, and stomach, the shirt he's removed fit for Rorschachs he'll no doubt be subjected to if he ever gets caught. Each physical movement is as reflexive -_blink, breathe, think_- as it is conscientious -_listen, pause, crouch lower there's lights_-, though the window has a firm hold on his mind throughout.

Half of him wishes _he'll_ come to it, eyes bright, searching, lost, and forgiving. The other half knows that if he does -_I'll go back... I'll go back and I'll show him everything he is_- then he'll have no chance of seeing him again. There's simply too much he's done besides, too much he's taken of Robin at once. He knows now is not when he should ask for more, _if_ he asks at all.

_'He'll come around.'_

It's enough of a thought to get him back to his feet, to get his fingers around the tape and the cap and rip them away. Sitting is more awkward than scaling the wall -_skin hotter, air cool, but the heat is just so... so_- and he smirks wryly to himself as he adjusts on the bike's saddle, the sepia visor of his helm clicking shut.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Seven blocks away and the patriotic lights of the local force wash over his form, the cars ahead stopped at the intersection. Authority has right of way, and no one questions _who_ they search for, but _why_.

He counts five in total. Each one passes, though nowhere near a speed that would impress one who'd been so close to a speedster. His eyes narrow but he holds his head high, a tilt of his head and twist at the waist morphing his muted grey and black form into one of a curious bystander. The blinding lights each pass him in turn, sirens pitching to an angry shriek only to sink back into the depths of the city as the last of the cars disappear in the direction of the place he called his dwelling.

The weight at his back and hip comfort him.

He thinks of red and chaste kisses.

He smiles.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Since he broke the ties binding him under Ollie's wing, it's been rooftops for patrol, and the streets for... _everything else_. Sometimes he feels like he's never had a home, but that's just fine because the look in _their_ eyes -_understanding, adoration, fear_- when they see him _is_ home.

The smile is still there, on his face, he can feel it. It's probably why the bruised bangers are more eager than usual to comply.

They look up at his approach, a dark figure in the doorway of the dilapidated building they inhabit. They look down just as quickly when he takes off his helmet. He can hear the soft shuffles of weapons being put back in their places -_they know better_-, and brushes off the usual appeasements in favor of pointedly staring _up_.

Their leader is down in moments.

A steely-eyed man, lean but firm. He coughs.

"This needs to go, as well as the bike outside. Your lines will _stay open_. I'll be contacting you over the next few weeks."

Arsenal's words are clipped, far more serious than his expression lets on. The man nods, takes the backpack from his hand, refrains from peeking at the bloodied contents with the other still in his presence. After a pointed look he nods again. The bag will not be opened.

A hush -_relief_- laps against the pockmarked walls once he clears the threshold and returns to the outside world. None of them guess his purpose -_a dangerous game, if ever played_- when he disappears back into the night.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

He's ducking behind a rundown bar -_alone, so alone, pure bliss_-, and the place smells like wings, and booze, and urine, but it doesn't erase the smile from his face. He's so excited his hands are shaking, and it's just like his first time with the needle. Blood cooling on his skin, body tingling with the aftermath, lips especially, and yeah so what if he's a little hard, and -_yes this is so perfect, this is the best night of my life_- he takes the gun from his jacket pocket and lifts it to his cheek.

It's still warm.

The mouth of the barrel is still warm, and whether it's from _his_ skin -_his lips_- or from the expulsion of ammunition just minutes before, it doesn't matter because it's enough. He doesn't worry about muting himself, he just _moves_, because the gun, and Robin, and the _gun_, and _Robin_.

A television, a radio, the voice of a broadcast, -_Breaking news, a murder involving the WayneTech heir_- makes him jump, makes him shiver. He wants to hear it again, wants the prim precise voice to mention the dark successor again because - _I can't wait anymore, it's too much, the look in his eyes when I told him I loved-_ - he's been struggling with this _awkward heat_ for just under an hour.

There's something to be said about his character that he doesn't laugh or think twice at the thought of sticking a gun down his pants. The impression in his mind's eye as his lids flutter closed is brutally more serene than the reality of what he's doing. Dark hair, pale skin, eyes cheerful blue and bright, a hand on his cheek...

(_"Roy~"_)

"Dick-"

The gun, still warm, so hard but still warm- the lip of the gun, -_gun lip? His lips?_- caressing and- wait. It's not Dick, it's not- _he's_ not-

(_"It's okay Roy, just relax~"_)

And he does, and it feels so good to just _listen_. The gun stops moving but he doesn't mind, feels Dick's hand on his cheek, his hand and _his hand_, and it's nice, and right and perfect. Perfect like the weight of the steel in his hand, perfect like the spare clip in his pocket, perfect like-

(_"Roy?"_)

His tense shoulders relax and he stops grinding the weapon between his legs. Stops because his eyes are open, because across from him is an empty alley full of garbage, because his inner thigh suddenly _hurts_ and-

There's going to be a bruise there tomorrow.

A wind blows, whips around the corner and into the alley, and paper catches on the bloody tip of his boot -_couldn't change them, need something to remember it-him... it?_-. He shivers, recoils, nuzzles into the wall, and sighs.

"Dick... I need-"

(_"I know, I know~"_)

And Dick is there again -_A forgiving dream? An alley, empty and- no, close your eyes tighter, tighter- he's real_-, petting his cheek, apologizing for hurting his bloodied nose, smirking when the redhead licks at the dried substance on his lip and grins. Small hands, oddly calloused like his own -_not as small, not as soft, not- _ touching lower, reaching and tickling and stroking and-

There's a sudden movement, a loud _rattle_ and he, _oh god_, he jumps and there's a _click_ and a _sound_ -_crash, clang, bang_- and-

He's wet. Fuck- fuckfuckfuck- "Nonono-"

The only sound assaulting his ears now is his own ragged breathing and his sledgehammer heartbeat. A partially gloved hand comes back in the darkness, adrenaline spiked by fear rampant when he can't make his hand _stop shaking_. The gun is barely in his fingers, trembling, dripping and -_it's too dark, too dark_- he swallows and stills.

He's not in any pain. Dick is gone.

Roy opens his eyes, looks around. A downed trashcan and the eyes of a homeless man stare back. The exchange is silent -_I won't tell if you don't_- and he peers down at the mess on his weapon. Shivers. Thanks god that last bullet is still rattling around inside Wally's skull, because _damn_. Roy snorts a laugh only after he's checked his pants twice.

"Okay, no more fun with guns."

But he knows that holds no meaning, and climbs to his feet to get the feel of gritty brick off his back. The faint caterwauling of sirens has spread. News moves fast in the city of fallen stars.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.


	4. Father's Intuition

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. I make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

There's something about nightmares, something so surreal yet tangible that makes them inconceivably strenuous when they hit close to home. Even for someone accustomed to them -_the sweat, the confusion, the terror_- they're still agonizingly real.

Inescapable.

It's an instinct, some form of survival tactic almost, to push them away. To more or less forget them in his waking hours in order to meet society's standards of function. So when they manage to resurface, to raise bumps on his skin like warts of chill, to draw sweat from his pores in rivulets, and to warp his mind until every moving thing and every inanimate object is the enemy, it's crippling. He can't afford to let the gaping maws of the creatures in his dreams to reach him during his waking hours, yet here he is surrounded by stiff suits and greedy eyes, all oblivious to the twisted black _thing_ in his hand.

It thrashes, strikes out with fangs of metal, refusing to stop when he grips it tighter. The eyes of the men are on him now, and he knows he's the only one to see the threat.

Unease. Anxiety. It coils dangerously tight in his chest, his heart, the seed of _disorder_ from which the creature is born. The birth of his nightmares, its' physical manifestation in the form of a simple device used for communication.

His son's name is flashing on the cold, flat screen of the thing's face like a beacon and... something is wrong.

_Something is wrong._

He knows better than to ignore his instincts, swallows thickly, lowers his hand -_the beast_-, and plasters on a false smile. It calms him.

"Mr. Wayne, are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's nothing, just gotta take this call. It's fine, carry on without me, i'll be right back."

He smiles wider, all teeth and laughs and ignorance -_a mask, but it works_-, at the man's displeased frown. There's a muttering, something insulting -_idiot, airhead, failure_-, but he ignores it in favor of heading for the door. The beast vibrates again. _Hisses_.

It'd be a lie to say he'd never dreamt of it happening in this place. One of the many he frequents, it always happens when he least expects it. There's some cruel pleasure his mind takes in ambushing him, in dragging him down into the depths of things he'd rather leave uncovered, the same way he prowls Gotham's streets like some demonic avenger.

It'd also be a lie to say he'd never dreamt of him, his partner, his _son_, suffering as well. But it's something else entirely when he rips the beast in two with a _snap_, places the cool, metallic body to his ear.

"_Bruce_."

It's not a question, it's not a scream, it's not a broken, panicked plea.

It's just his name.

A silence in which he shudders, backs away toward the bathrooms to hide his face promptly follows. He swallows down the burning sensation in his throat.

"Dick? What is it?" Calm voice. Maybe this is a different kind of dream, maybe, for the first time in years there won't be a gunshot, or a cry, or a deep, terrible silence.

There's a pause, another quiet that he forces himself to _breathe_ through, and then another sound, a soft respire.

"_I... I'm... It's Wally he's-_"

What? Wally?

Bruce blinks, then forces himself to listen because his mind has just flown twelve different directions, and suddenly there's a phone -_not a beast, not a... not a dream...?_- to his ear and the shadows in the corners of the rooms aren't there anymore and he's breathing just fine. -_Reality is merciful compared to his mind._-

It's not about _him_ this time, _that feeling_. Guilt tickles him at the thought. He promptly shoos it away.

"_Just... I don't know, can you come pick me up?_"

It's a stupid question if he's ever heard one, and he nods to the empty bathroom, grunting into the receiver. Robin's voice is fine -_monotone, controlled, stiff, trained_- but his thoughts are broken. He's still babbling into his ear, and he can't make out anything past the drone of _Wally_ and _Roy_ and _Police Station_.

The first two make sense. He'd known the boy was going to Star City despite the obvious tension within their group, and he'd trusted Dick had known what he was doing. Whether there'd been a fight between them or a disturbance that required their alter egos was a question unanswered.

"Sit, clear your head. I'll be there soon."

There's no rushed answer before he hangs up and he exits quickly, tossing a note to the receptionist to give to the men in the meeting room later.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Once had been enough. One panicked rush, one pickup, one deep warm hug to chase the fears away.

Once had been enough. Once upon a time.

Now there's something eating him, tearing at a heart already broken, and it's obvious that the loss, the process of losing, isn't yet done.

The man stands close, yet far, eyes trained on the two bundles of black, one firm and protective, the other slowly beginning to unravel as the need to _hide_ melts away.

They're back in Gotham, and if Alfred had ever felt pain before, then it was a misconception.

Bruce is all quiet, rumbling murmurs, stroking the boy's hair, his back, tucking him into the protective circle of his arms until he's barely even visible. Dried blood crusting and flaking off onto his suit because for once Bruce didn't mind throwing around his status, was happy to, had lifted his son from the clutches of the incompetent police to take the traumatized boy home to heal.

And Richard... Richard is little more than blank. His eyes are closed, lips pressed in a thin line, and he's not yet shaking though the sorrow is there, and it's _deep_.

To see his son and his grandson in such pain, to know the light the heart of their family has lost, that he _too_ has lost...

"Alfred."

The old man's crisp gloves crinkle under the strain of his fingers clenched tight. Those eyes, _those eyes_ -_dear God, the boy doesn't deserve this_- are the same as his fathers', if not worse. He steps forward and is drawn into the circle -_the shield_-, completely engulfing the boy, wanting to ease his hurt but unable. The tiny shoulders shake against his chest.

"I'm so sorry Master Richard."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Dick honestly can't tell how many bags have developed under his eyes over the last few days, but he doesn't care. There's no missions, there's no travel, there's no _life_. Most of the time it hurts to think, and while Bruce tries -_God he tries so hard to be there- _he's equal parts angry and worried. There's an additional hour a day he sees the man -_the only hour_-, and then he's down in the cave, seated in the darkness the boy refuses to enter.

Only after the third day had he been able to step foot into the place he'd grown so used to calling his second home. His suit felt oddly reassuring, though the eyes of the League staring down at him through his mentor's screen had knocked him flat and crushed the air from his lungs.

He'd barely been able to choke out a recount, and even then his eyes had watered behind his mask. He'd fled the moment Batman had given him the go ahead.

He was far too distressed to flush with embarrassment when the man found him hours later, whimpering, curled up under the covers of his bed still encased in the bold colors of his uniform. It was a blessing that Bruce seemed to understand and, with an uncharacteristically long hug, let him be.

He'd slept with his grapple in his hands.

Now the suit isn't enough. His skin crawls, itches, gooses as if chilled. As if the cold bite of steel is just inches away, eager to caress.

Not even his boots have been removed, and when he slithers down the hall and creeps into Alfred's bed, only to be kicked out again, it brings a frown to his face. Bruce is in his cave and there's nowhere else for him to go. The shadows will tear him apart, he can't be alone, he _can't_-

"I understand you are stressed, Master Dick, but that is no excuse to behave like a barbarian. Shoes off, if you please."

The warmth, the _normalcy_, brings tears to the boy's eyes and he laughs, hurriedly kicking off his shoes and scurrying under the blanket held open to him in invitation. He wraps his arms around the man, tight, _crushing_, and though the fear returns the moment the other nods off to sleep, it's not nearly enough to make him shed himself and shrink into the sheets.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Roy doesn't attend the funeral.

It's a thought, at once heavy and fleeting. It wouldn't be right for him to be there, he was _the killer_, the cause for the ceremony. The Ringmaster that laughed and sang as he whipped his animals to order, whipped them until they danced, whipped them until they cried.

Even if he _had_ showed up, it wouldn't have been _him_. The body would have been Roy's but the mind... the mind would have been as fake as the impostors Green Arrow had been dragging down into the gutters over the past two weeks. How the young man could enlist so many willing to take a beating at his expense he'd never know, and he never wanted to find out. It was only a phantom chill he'd gotten at the news that he'd gone into hiding.

He looks down at Wally now, at _the body_, and suddenly he hates Bruce.

Frowns deeply and shrugs his hand off his shoulder because he taught him the signs, how to look, _where_ to look.

He can't stop the motions, the quick flickering movements of his own eyes, and he wants to tear them out of his skull. Why can't he just grieve normally? Why can't he just cry at the sight of his best friend, his lover, dead in a box and soon to be lowered beneath the ground?

Why can't he ignore the memory of the boy's brains splattered over his shoulder and chest, the knowledge that the back of his head has been pieced back together for the sake of an open casket?

Why can't he look away from the wig, half dulled red locks half pathetic synthetic strands, or the barely-there bubble of flesh, the scarred line caked in skin tone makeup just behind the boy's left ear?

Each question brands his mind, only to be stamped over with a seal of iron as hot as the fires of hell. There's blush, a light dusting settled on Wally's pale cheeks. The freckles are barely visible and there's _blush dusted on his cold, pale cheeks_.

Robin's hands shake, teeth grinding nearly hard enough to crack, because -_how dare they, how DARE they_- the sight before him is a mockery of life and a cruel attempt at an illusion to those still living.

He's _dead_.

He will _stay dead_.

So why, _where_, would they find the audacity to defile the body of the boy in such a way as to trick those so close to him in life into... into...

Not even the comforting weight of Bruce's arms around his shoulders is enough to stop the cracked sob that rips at his throat. There are no tears, just the retching of a soul broken further upon having it's innermost desires denied so cruelly. -_Blush, blood flow, heartbeat, life_- He doesn't _deserve_ to look so alive. To be that cold, stiff statue that will never open it's eyes again, that piles on _lie_ after _lie_ before his very eyes.

"Stop it Wally."

Dick's voice is low and shaken, and Bruce knows, can tell by the violent _flinch_ at the sound of his own voice, that they need to go.

_Now_.

When he grabs him, steers him gently by the shoulders away from the coffin, he complies with the ease of a well trained dog. Then his eyes roll off the creamy white of the silk compressed under the deceased's head and he whines, cranes his neck to look back. He can't see Wally over the swell of Bruce's pitch black shoulder and he panics. He has to scream at him, make him feel like shit for lying to him because Wally's a douche sometimes but he gets guilty when he pulls stupid stunts and he apologizes. _He apologizes._

"Wait Bruce-"

"I know... but we need to go now."

"No, no, hold on I just need to-"

"Alfred, take him to the car, it's time to go."

"No! Wait, just, hold on a sec he's being an idiot, just let me-"

"Master Dick, please-"

"Dick... I know what you're feeling right now is painful but it's going to be alright-"

"_STOP LYING TO ME!_"

Bruce's eyes widen at the sudden shriek, hands pausing on the boy's forearms. Dick's eyes are wild and bloodshot, tears threatening to fall. It's something just short of _crazed_ and the look isn't pinned on the man but past him, on the boy in the box. It's pain, _beyond pain_, to watch each flogged and flayed emotion clawing their way into the forefront of the child's mind. To be forced to watch as he continues to break under the strain.

When the angry, desperate look fades, and the boy spills into the back of the car, he's not so sure even _he_ knows who he was screaming at.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

**A/N**: I'm a little too eager to post chapters for this. The pacing didn't feel quite right, but i've scrapped the second half of this twice and rewritten the rewrite at least two times more. If there's something else that needs covering then i'll do it later. Nighty night all~


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